


Writing On The Walls

by Mnemoli



Series: Rogue Variable Side Stories [3]
Category: Fallout 3, Fallout 4
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-05 19:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21213992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnemoli/pseuds/Mnemoli
Summary: After Elder Lyons passes away in his sleep, former vault-dweller Heather Gautier, now a seasoned veteran at 20, finds herself caught in the middle of a political struggle she never asked to be a part of. Meanwhile, Knight Danse tries to protect young Squire Maxson from himself. (Canon is altered as needed to make up for discrepancies in the original timeline. I've preserved as much of the canon as I can.)This fic's title and chapter names come from the "Aviators" song of the same name. I highly recommend listening to it, as it's a big inspiration for Heather's characterization.





	1. A Deadened Flame

A brackish early morning haze hung over the Citadel, a funeral pall for the world that once was, scented by the reek of salt from off the tidal basin. Even now, months after Project Purity had begun to transform the waters of the Capital Wasteland into pure, clean water for all mankind -- or at least all mankind as deemed fit by the Brotherhood of Steel -- the smell remained. Perhaps it always would, a final defiant trace of the stain left by those Old World fools. Heather didn't know for certain.

The young Knight frowned at herself in her tarnished mirror, trying once more to make her russet curls behave. Her father had always told her she'd inherited two things from her late mother: the ability to keep him in line, and her impossible hair. She smiled slightly as she thought back to all those childhood mornings when he'd fought with her snarled locks. Lesser men would have shaved her head. But not James Gautier. He loved a challenge.

Those days were gone now. They had been left behind years ago, tucked away with comic books and other childish things long before Heather herself had been abandoned. She'd pushed her father away in a burst of teenage independence, a natural course of their relationship. And yet, now that he was gone, she would sell her soul for one more awkward ponytail, one more frustrated grumble in that gentle voice she'd never hear again. She knew enough now to see the flaws she hadn't known then. She knew enough now to see the love she'd probably taken for granted. But as with so many of the paths she yearned to walk down, she came upon that crossroads far too late.

Her curls carefully pinned back from her face, Heather pulled her military cap over the top. She smiled ruefully as she donned a khaki greatcoat over her Brotherhood uniform. It was perhaps in poor taste that she wore Colonel Autumn's coat, but the Knight didn't care. It felt right to parade around in a trophy from the man who'd killed her dad and so many others. She hoped Autumn was watching her from hell and choking on the sight. He deserved nothing less. Besides, today was going to be a hard day. For all of them. She needed the comfort of her righteous vengeance to keep her stable.

Heather glanced down at her Pip-Boy and gasped. How was it that late already? She hadn't taken that long to do her hair, had she? She gulped down a few sips of water from a can of Aqua Pura before sprinting from her quarters. She'd promised Paladin Kodiak that she'd check on Sarah twenty minutes ago.

As she flew around the corner towards B-Ring, Heather face-planted into a solid wall of steel, almost falling over backwards. Her hat tumbled to the ground next to her as she struggled to regain her footing.

"Careful!" admonished a gravely voice as the man she'd collided with held her upright. "There's a reason no one is permitted to run in the halls, Gautier."

She winced, recognizing the voice as one of Squire Maxson's bodyguards. Heather flushed with embarrassment as her eyes met a pair of rich brown ones. "I'm sorry, Knight Danse!" Heather apologized.

He sighed heavily, releasing his grip on her. "Let me guess. You're running late. Again."

Heather nodded sheepishly. "Sorry," she muttered again.

The young man looked her over carefully, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "You aren't hurt, are you? I thought you were going to leave an imprint of your face on my armor."

"You should be so lucky!" she joked. "I'm fine. Really."

He smirked ever so slightly, bending down and picking up her cap before handing it back to her. "I'm glad to hear it. Squire Maxson would never forgive me if I hurt you. Even if it was your own fault."

Heather nodded, pulling her cap back on. "How is Artie holding up, anyway?"

Something dangerous flashed in Danse's eyes. "_Squire Maxson _is resilient," he replied. "Though he is grieving as much as the rest of us. Losing an Elder is always a difficult burden."

She pulled a small box from her backpack, presenting it to the Knight. "Here. I was going to bring these to him after the funeral. But since you'll see him before I do..."

Danse opened the box cautiously, his eyes lighting up at the contents. "Sweetrolls? Did you bake these?"

Heather nodded. "I was having trouble sleeping after we got the news," she said softly. "And I remembered that Artie has a bit of a sweet tooth, so I thought these might cheer him up."

The Knight carefully extracted a pastry from the box, a difficult feat with gauntlets on. "It would be in Squire Maxson's best interest if I checked these for poison," he replied.

The young woman laughed. "Danse, if you want one, that's fine. You don't have to justify it. I made plenty." He opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head. "If I wanted to kill Artie, don't you think I would have by now? Come on! I'm not an amateur."

Danse glared at her, but he ate the pastry anyway. As he wiped the sticky glaze from his armored fingertips, he grimaced, tears in his eyes. "I do believe you weren't intending to poison him," he said, "but you have got to be one of the worst bakers I've ever had the misfortune of encountering. I think the taste of these would be enough to break the will of even the strongest man."

"They can't be that bad!" Heather protested.

He chuckled. "I'm going to take these to the lab. I think you may have made a significant breakthrough in biological warfare. Scribe Rothchild should be alerted at once."

"You're an asshole," Heather grumbled. "I just wanted to do something nice."

"Stick to saving the world," Danse replied. "But I'll tell Squire Maxson you were thinking of him. That will help him more than indigestion would."

"I should kick your ass," Heather shot back.

"I doubt your legs could reach that high," he teased. "But I suppose we can test that next time we train together." Danse thought for a moment. "Gautier, why were you in such a hurry anyway?"

Heather paled. "Crap!" she exclaimed. "I'm supposed to go check in on Sar...I mean, on Sentinel Lyons! Have you seen her?"

The Knight nodded. "She's in her father's chambers, I believe." Danse sighed. "I hope you can do something for her. I...I've never been very good at comforting people. Particularly women."

Heather chuckled. "I can't say I'm shocked," she replied. "Well, I guess I'll see you at the funeral. Sorry again!" Before Danse could reply, she dashed off down the hall again, only a little slower than before.

* * *

Sentinel Lyons knelt by her father's casket, her face unreadable as she gently stroked the old man's cheek. His eyes were closed now, a small mercy from the Scribe who had found him in the wee hours of the morning. Sarah deserved to remember her father the way he had been, a force of nature, kindly and fervent in his beliefs. Not as a tormented corpse, eyes glazed and bulging as he'd struggled for one last breath.

She looked strange in her Brotherhood ceremonial dress, her long blonde hair neatly pinned up in a more formal style than her customary messy ponytail. Sarah rarely wore anything besides her power armor, always ready for the first sign of attack against the Citadel. The long, navy blue robe made her look like a doll, small and slight and fragile, somehow even younger than her 27 years.

Heather's mind flooded with images of her rebirth, of Sarah's limp, unconscious form curled up on a hospital bed beside her. That had been months ago, but the fear she felt for her friend flared up anew as she approached the grieving Sentinel. It had been the first time Heather had seen Sarah as mortal, as someone who could be lost. Now, as the young Sentinel knelt in the shadow of her fallen father, that same fear rekindled in Heather's chest. Sarah was vulnerable, wounded in ways no one could truly heal. What if she never recovered from this loss? 

The young soldier didn't move as Heather walked up beside her. She barely flinched as the younger woman placed a soft, gloved hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. "How are you holding up?" Heather asked quietly.

"I'll be fine," Sarah replied in a small, choked voice. She cleared her throat. "I assume you're here to tell me that it'll get better."

Heather sighed softly. It was just like the Sentinel to repress her feelings. When they'd first met in the ruins of Chevy Chase, Heather had thought the head of Lyons' Pride was a total bitch, cold and hard as the power armor she wore. It had taken the better part of a year for Heather to win Sarah's trust, to see the kind and gentle young woman under the razor-sharp exterior. She didn't blame the Sentinel for trying to bury her grief under her familiar stoic shell. Hell, Heather knew better than most what it felt like to lose the only family she'd ever known. "They do say it gets easier, don't they?" she said, sitting down on the floor next to the Sentinel. "But I think they're full of shit."

Sarah snorted. "You know how my father feels...felt about swearing, Gautier."

"I know," Heather replied. "My dad was the same way. Hell, I wonder what he'd day if he could see me now. After all I've done..."

The Sentinel bumped the side of her arm lightly against Heather's. "You still miss him," she murmured.

Heather nodded. "I won't lie. There's not a day I don't think of him. Of seeing him..." she growled at herself as her voice cracked. This wasn't the time. "So I get it. If you need me, I'm here."

Sarah looked over at the Knight, her blue eyes bloodshot and rimmed with swollen skin. "I don't..." she exhaled slowly, lowering her gaze. "Thanks," she mumbled. "For being honest with me. Everyone just keeps apologizing, telling me what a good man my father was, like that makes it okay that he's gone. Like knowing that the world just got so much darker without him in it makes it better somehow."

For a long time, Heather didn't respond. She just sat beside Sarah, their arms touching just enough to transfer a small amount of warmth between them. That suited her just fine. Neither of them were the hugging type. Women of their caliber rarely had the luxury of softness. What gentleness that remained had to be carefully rationed these days. After a long silence, the younger woman finally spoke. "You know, I don't think I ever told you why I didn't let you go into the water purifier instead of me."

"I never asked," Sarah replied, watching Heather carefully. "I guess I always assumed it was a noble gesture. You are a hero, after all."

Heather scoffed. "I've never given a shit about nobility, Sarah. You know that. It was never about that crap. I just..." she sighed heavily. "I missed my dad. I thought if I died in there, right where I lost him, that might not be so bad. At least we'd be together again." She laughed bitterly. "That's why I still volunteer for every hopeless mission, still run in guns blazing. I've been so damn careless, but I'm either the luckiest person in this wasteland or I'm being punished for something, you know?"

The Sentinel frowned. "Why are you telling me this, Knight?"

"I'm just saying, I know what you're going through," Heather continued. "And I know what it can do to a person, losing their father. But you can't let the pain win, okay? Just...please, whatever you do to cope, be careful. I've lost enough friends. I'd hate to lose you too."

Sarah smiled weakly, her cheeks reddening slightly. "I...I'll keep that in mind." Her eyes met Heather's, and for the faintest of moments, the younger woman thought she could see a flicker of something deep and lovely behind those brilliant blues. But in the space of a blink, it was gone, and Sarah cleared her throat awkwardly. "We should report to the courtyard. I'm supposed to address the assembly before they...before they bring my father in."

Heather nodded, groaning as she rose to her feet. She gently squeezed the deceased Elder's hand, a silent prayer for the old man in her heart. Then, without another word, she escorted Sarah from the room. There would be time enough for mourning Owyn Lyons when the future of the Brotherhood of Steel was secured. For now, the living needed to look after their own.


	2. They Would Rebel Safe At Home

There was a hush over the Citadel courtyard that was as deafening as weapons fire. The pentagonal space, normally used for training, was dominated by a large platform of broken pallets and scrap wood that had been hastily gathered from the ruins outside. Next to this was a raised podium salvaged from a nearby cathedral, the Brotherhood crest freshly painted on its surface. Drips of yellow paint bled from the crest, slowly tracing sickly paths towards the ground. No one had been prepared for such an occasion as this. No one dared to anticipate such a monumental loss. 

Sarah Lyons took her place before the assembled might of the Brotherhood of Steel, her thin fingers gripping the sides of the podium as though it was her laser rifle. Heather followed after her at a respectful distance before ducking in beside Arthur Maxson in the front row.

Knight Danse, standing at the Squire's other side, flashed Heather a quick scowl, making it clear that he was watching her. She sighed. It had been almost a year since she'd joined up with the Brotherhood, and like many of his fellows, Danse still seemed to see her as an outsider. She supposed that was a fair assessment, even if it hurt. After all, Heather wasn't the type to blindly follow orders. While she did her best to carry out her missions in a way that would bring about favorable outcomes, her methods were sometimes so off-book as to be from an entirely different series. She couldn't blame a man like Danse -- so determined to do everything exactly as he was expected to -- for mistrusting her.

Arthur looked up at Heather as she stood next to him, his steel blue eyes bloodshot and hooded. He smiled nervously at her, placing a small hand in hers. She squeezed it gently, fighting the urge to kneel beside the Squire and pull him into a hug. She thought back to the young ones she'd known in Vault 101, still children at ten. Though that was the age when the young Vault-Dwellers were first trusted with responsibilities in their underground community, they were still permitted to joke and play, to dream of what their future might hold. But the Capital Wasteland was not kind to children. Those who survived had to grow up fast, like the boy-mayor Heather had befriended in her first month out of the vault. She had thought that nothing could hurt as much as watching MacCready mourn the members of a scavenging party who never made it home to Little Lamplight. She had tried to comfort him, as she had with the younger vault-dwellers in her old life, but the foul-mouthed boy had told her to fuck off, that he couldn't look weak in front of the kids who depended on him. Heather wished she could do more for him and his followers, to give them a gentler childhood. But the children of the Wasteland grew up early, or they died.

For Artie, it was probably even harder to be a child. He was reminded constantly of the fate that was in store for him as the last of his powerful bloodline, and though a child's sensitive heart still dreamed away inside him, it was clear that his future had been determined from the day he was born. No one in the Citadel saw him as a mere boy. No one dared to treat him as ordinary. No one except for Heather, and occasionally Sarah when she thought she could get away with it. This tiny, rebellious gesture of holding Heather's hand was more than the young Maxson usually allowed himself, so she was careful not to draw attention to it. He deserved a chance to be vulnerable, and Heather would gladly help him in the only way she could.

Danse cleared his throat gently, and Heather turned to look at him with defiant eyes, bracing herself for a reprimand. But to her surprise, the Knight simply acknowledged her with a tiny nod, a slight glint of gratitude in his deep brown eyes. Heather squeezed Artie's hand a little tighter, a small smirk blossoming on her sunburnt face. Interesting. Maybe there was more to Danse than she'd thought. That...might be worth exploring.

"Brothers and Sisters," Sarah began, her voice clear of the pain and uncertainty she'd shown in her father's chambers, "it is with a heavy heart that we are assembled here to mark the passing of my father, Elder Owyn Lyons. My father was a great man. More than that, he was a good one. I know that while his methods may have been unorthodox from time to time, his heart was always true to the spirit of our Brotherhood. I stand here before you now not merely as your Sister, but as a daughter, not merely as your Sentinel, but as his blood. I ask that you remember my father not only as the hero who led us through the Pitt, who saw us though so many trials, who brought us victory against the horrors of the Enclave, but that you remember him also as a man. My father was humble. He would ask for nothing more."

Sarah turned to a pair of Paladins, nodding at them. The armor-clad men flung open a set of doors behind the pyre, revealing a dozen scribes. The red-robed scholars bore the Elder's coffin on their backs, carrying it in solemn procession across the courtyard. With a coordinated effort, they hoisted the coffin onto the wooden platform before retreating to their place behind the Sentinel.

Scribe Rothschild handed Sarah a burning torch, sympathy in his aged eyes. She grasped it firmly, holding the flame aloft. "It is in fire that steel is refined. So, in those rare times when we have an opportunity to bury one of our own, we do so in fire. Not in earth, which corrupts and rots away, but with flame that purifies and cleanses. May we bear this same fire ever in our hearts, a burning zeal for our sacred mission."

The assembly saluted to a man, a thunderous clap of fist to chest. Arthur yanked his hand free of Heather's, echoing the salute. He sniffled softly, and Heather noticed Danse's eyes darting over the young boy with concern. Still, neither of them intervened. They had no choice.

The flames danced and licked around the pyre, hungrily encircling the husk that had once been the leader of this band of soldiers. Heather looked away, her heart twisting violently in her chest. She had only worked with the old man for a year, had far less to mourn than those who stood around her. But in a world that had stolen so much from her, the Elder had given her a home. After the loss of her father, Owyn Lyons had given her the means to save his legacy. In many ways, he had kept James Gautier alive for Heather, had saved her from the pain which threatened to consume her. Not even her oldest friends had stood beside her for that.

Amata still refused to speak to Heather after the rebellion had opened Vault 101 to the outside world. And Butch? Heather hadn't seen him in months. The last time she'd seen the greaser, he was still drinking himself out of brain cells in the depths of Rivet City, lashing out at anyone who got in his way. Of course, the latter was definitely Heather's fault. Not that it mattered. She'd made her choice, to stand with the Brotherhood. That was more important than whatever feelings she'd had to hurt along the way.

"Hey, kid, are you okay?" asked a warm voice from beside her. She turned to see one of her fellow Knights standing to her right, his golden hair catching the morning rays of the sun.

Heather shook her head. "I'm really not," she muttered.

The Knight laughed gently. "Well, we can't have that, can we?" He offered her a crumpled handkerchief. "If our hero's not okay, what hope do the rest of us have?"

She took the cloth in a trembling hand, dabbing at her eyes as hot tears began to flood her face.

"Hey, it's okay," the man soothed. "Come on. Let's find you someplace quiet." He took her arm, pulling her away from the pyre.

She nodded weakly, letting him herd her into one of the back archives. With everyone still outside, the old, musty room was lifeless, safe. He helped her to a chair before pulling the door shut behind them.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked softly. Heather nodded again, and he leaned against the wall with a soft sigh. "Sometimes I think I shoulda been a Scribe," he muttered. "Never did like paperwork, but..."

Heather snorted through her tears, covering her nose with her arm. "Why? Don't have the brains for it?"

He shot her an easy grin that almost hid the trepidation in his lively hazel eyes. "Nah. I just suck at keeping things organized. Used to drive my business partner nuts. Not like it was hard."

"Business partner?" She frowned.

The man shrugged. "What, you think I grew up in power armor? Nah. I'm an outsider. Just like you. Well, maybe not _just_ like you, but, yeah. You'd be surprised how many of us chose this life, rather than being born into it."

"They sure don't act that way," Heather muttered. She narrowed her eyes as she looked over her companion. There was something familiar about him. It wasn't just that she'd seen him in the halls. They'd met before. But where? "You're one of Paladin Jensen's squad, right?" she asked. "From Fort Bannister."

He chuckled. "I'm surprised you remember. No, I'm not one of Jensen's. I was just filling in for a member of the squad. I'm actually between bosses at the moment." He offered her a hand. "I'm Knight-Sergeant Ethan Cutler."

"Knight Heather Gautier. But clearly, you already knew that." She sighed. "I'm getting really tired of everyone knowing who I am."

"A girl like you's pretty hard to forget," Cutler replied. "I mean, I've watched you fight. Hard to believe you grew up in a freaking vault, you know?"

"What can I say?" Heather replied, rolling her eyes. "I guess I'm just lucky."

He shook his head. "Nah. I have a feeling you make your own luck, am I right?" He pulled up a chair next to hers, easing into it. "Look, I'll cut right to the chase. I need your help."

Heather stared at him. "I'm sorry? My help?"

Cutler nodded. "I've been making it my business to know what's what around here ever since I joined up. And in spite of our many recent victories, tensions have really never been higher. I don't know if you've noticed, but not everyone here was a huge fan of Elder Lyons."

Heather sighed. "I had gotten that impression. But didn't most of the people who disliked him defect?"

"The more vocal ones, yeah," Cutler replied. "But others stayed quiet, you know? Waiting for the right time to intervene. And with the Elder now gone..."

"You think someone's gonna lead a coup against Sarah," Heather finished. "She is the next in line to lead the Brotherhood, right?"

Cutler's grin widened. "Beautiful and smart! Why's no one snatched you up yet?"

"Please," she groaned. "Like I have any time for that nonsense. And from the way you're speaking, neither do you. So cut the crap. You want my help to take these guys down, is that it?"

Cutler chuckled. "Yeah, that's the gist. Now, personally, I'm not worried about our Lioness. She's more than capable of protecting herself, and she's got the Pride to back her up. I'm much more worried about Squire Maxson."

Heather thought for a moment, trying to process the information she was receiving. "Artie? He's not a threat to anyone. No one's gonna make a 10-year-old the next Elder of the Brotherhood, right?"

"Not the next one, no," Cutler replied. "But think about it, kid. Little Arthur Maxson's not just a Squire. He's a valuable commodity. And whoever controls him controls the future of the Brotherhood. Now do you see why I might be a little bit concerned?"

She nodded. "But he's under constant guard! Knight Danse is --"

"Knight Danse is my friend," Cutler hissed, "and I know he'd rather die than see anything happen to that boy. So if we could avoid that being an option, I'd prefer it."

Heather's eyes widened in recognition. "I see. So Danse is the one you're really trying to protect." She smirked. "Why do you need me, then? Save him yourself."

"Come on, Heather," Cutler replied. "I can't. He'd be so pissed if he knew I was looking out for him like this."

"Yeah, maybe because he's a grown-ass man who can handle his own business," she shot back. "Look, whatever you're up to, I really don't want to get involved. Just tell Sarah what you told me, and she'll handle it."

Cutler shook his head, his hazel eyes pleading with her. "I can't. I don't have enough proof of anything definite. She'll blow me off, just like her father did. And if they think she's on to them, she'll end up like her father, too."

"Elder Lyons died in his sleep of natural causes," Heather replied dismissively.

"Did he, now?" the man murmured.

She froze. "What?"

Cutler sighed. "You know, for someone who saved the damn world, you're pretty naive. This wasn't just the end of one man's life. I'm afraid this was the start of something far more dangerous."

Heather groaned. "Great. So yet another murder I've got to mop up after. And here I thought I could finally just grieve in peace."

He laughed, patting her on the back. "That's my girl."

"I'm not your girl," Heather growled. "And for the record, I haven't agreed to any of this."

He grinned rakishly back at her. "We'll see." He pulled a holotape from his pack, offering it to her. "Here's everything I've been able to find on our system. It's not much, but it should at least give you a few clues. You should also go have a chat with Maxson. I wouldn't be surprised if a nasty little bird's already been chirping in his ears."

"And what will you be doing while I'm doing all the legwork, Cutler?" she asked disdainfully.

"Call me Ethan. Please," he replied. "And that's simple. I'll be watching your back. Tastefully hidden away, of course."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course." Heather grabbed the holotape, sliding it into her bag as she walked out of the room. "Bye, Cutler."

"Ethan!" he called after her. "I'm serious!"

Heather sighed heavily, struggling to keep her footfalls inconspicuously steady as she raced back to her quarters. Either Cutler was completely insane, or he was on to something big. In either event, she could feel cords tightening around her limbs again, and there was nothing she hated more than being a damn puppet. Whatever was going on, she needed to get to the bottom of it before things got out of hand.


	3. Outside Their Comfort Zone

Knight Danse frowned as he saw his oldest friend lead Gautier out of the Citadel courtyard and into A-Ring. Part of him wanted to follow, to find out what exactly Cutler was up to. He was certainly up to something. Ethan Cutler always had an angle, a scheme to turn any situation to his advantage. It was the reason he'd talked Danse into joining the Brotherhood in the first place. There was security in working for one of the largest military powers in the wasteland that two street rats would never have scrounging the ruins for scrap, and the accommodations were worlds better than the mildewy old room they'd shared back in the leaky underbelly of Rivet City. Whatever Ethan wanted with the storm-eyed redhead was bound to be profitable, or at the very least entertaining.

Still, Danse had Arthur to worry about. The Squire couldn't be left alone, not after the last time he'd snuck out of the Citadel and nearly got his head blown off by a baby carriage mine. Someone had to watch him at all times, and for the last six months, that someone had been Danse. The knight wasn't certain why he had been chosen for the position. After all, as many who were jealous of the favor Elder Lyons showed the young man were quick to point out, he hadn't been born into the Brotherhood. Unlike Arthur, holy Steel wasn't in his blood, his very soul. He knew that he should be grateful to have so much trust placed in him. In reality, however, Danse had to admit that he found the weight of such a responsibility quite crushing. Combat, he could handle. Leading a squad was his dream. But trying to placate a precocious child who could outsmart and manipulate practically everyone? That was a nightmare.

It wasn't that he resented Squire Maxson, exactly. It was more that Danse wasn't sure what exactly to do with him. The Knight had a hard enough time relating to people his own age, let alone a boy just on the verge of his eleventh birthday. For all the supposed honor that came along with safeguarding the Brotherhood's future, Danse would have definitely preferred to be out in the field, protecting humanity from the Super Mutant threat. But he was loyal, and if his mission was to ensure the welfare of the last Maxson, he was going to do everything in his power to keep the boy happy and healthy.

Danse watched as Arthur approached the pyre, his steely eyes solemn as he stared at the flame-licked corpse of Elder Lyons. The Squire didn't cry, though his small body quivered as he stood reverently beside the fire, watching the purifying flames do their work. The Knight walked towards him slowly, taking his place beside the Squire while keeping his eyes on the lookout for threats. The Citadel was secure, but if there was one thing Danse had learned over the years, it was to never let his guard down. Safety was an illusion, a trap for fools. Only constant vigilance could hold back the chaotic forces of the wasteland.

Arthur bit his lower lip, struggling to remain stoic as he watched over the corpse of his mentor. Danse reached out tentatively, his hand open and ready to take the boy's. When Heather had held the Squire's hand earlier, it had seemed to calm him. But the boy either didn't notice or wasn't interested in such comforts now. His fists stayed balled at his sides, his eyes staring past the flames, miles distant. After a long moment, Danse relaxed, his hand returning awkwardly to his side.

Time seemed to slip away like the last remnants of a dream as they watched the flames burn down. Soon, they were among the only people left in the courtyard, accompanied only by Sarah Lyons and the Scribes tasked with removing the ashes from the training yard once the fire died. Without a word, Arthur turned on his heel, marching stiffly back towards B-Ring. Danse followed after, concerned for the boy's emotional state. Squire Maxson wasn't exactly the most forthcoming with his emotions, but it was clear that the boy was hurting. Danse's mind raced as he tried to figure out how to help his charge, but he was so out of his depth that it was almost terrifying.

Squire Maxson yanked open the door to his room unceremoniously, flopping down on his bunk with a heavy sigh. The boy stared up at the concrete ceiling, worrying his lip between his teeth hard enough to draw a bright streak of blood. Danse winced, pulling a handkerchief from his bag. "You're hurting yourself," he admonished, wiping at the boy's mouth.

"It's fine," grumbled Arthur, grabbing the cloth from his protector. "I'm not a baby."

"I know, but..." Danse started.

"So I don't need a babysitter," the boy continued.

"That remains to be seen," the Knight replied, shaking his head in exasperation. This was hardly the first time they'd had this particular argument. While it was true that none of the other Squires were as carefully guarded as Arthur, none of the others had his track record when it came to sneaking out and getting himself in trouble. That, and none of the others had his pedigree. As much as Arthur liked to say that he was just a normal boy, he didn't really have the luxury to be treated like one. And until he learned to be more careful with his own life, the Squire couldn't exactly be trusted on his own.

"Whatever," Arthur mumbled, wiping the blood from his mouth with a lazy swipe.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" Danse asked. "Some tea, maybe? Knight Gautier made some sweetrolls for you, if you'd like one. They're honestly pretty disgusting, so I wouldn't recommend them, but --"

"I'm fine," the Squire interrupted, sitting up. His eyes were distant, looking past the Knight as though not really seeing him. "I think I'd like some time alone, if that's all right."

"Are you certain? It's not ideal for you to be alone today. We could discuss the Codex some more, or play a game of --"

"No!" the Squire snapped. "Go away!"

Danse recoiled as though he'd been slapped. Arthur never shouted at anyone, especially not his only real companion. If anything, the boy was usually known for being too quiet. Seeing him lash out did nothing to alleviate the knight's concern. If anything, it made him worry more.

"I...I'll be just outside the door if you need me," Danse murmured, retreating.

"I won't," Arthur grumbled, collapsing back on his bed.

The Knight pulled the door shut behind him with a heavy sigh. Danse didn't want to admit how much the Squire's reaction stung. He knew he shouldn't take it personally, that Arthur was in mourning, but he couldn't help but feel like he'd failed the boy somehow. If only he was better at interpersonal relations, if only he understood the tactics of friendship as well as he understood the flow of battle...but it was no use. Somehow, he'd managed to make things worse, and now there was nothing for it but waiting until Maxson relented and forgave him.

He paced outside the door, trying to delude himself into believing that he was patrolling for threats. In reality, Danse had too much nervous energy to stay still. He needed to do something, come up with some way to fix this whole thing. But there was no way to bring the Elder back from his grave, or to undo the pain that resonated through the entire compound. For the first time in the years since he'd joined the Brotherhood, Danse felt incredibly small, just a tiny bit of rubble tossed about in a storm. He couldn't change or control anything, not anything that mattered. And while in some ways that was freeing, in others it merely made him feel trapped and useless.

"Danse?" called a gruff feminine voice, and he nearly jumped in surprise. He'd been so caught up in his thoughts that hadn't heard anyone approaching. His eyes met a pair of stormy blues, bright and curious if a little harried. Heather was breathing heavily as though she'd been running, her tan skin flushed in a way that emphasized her round cheeks. She adjusted her tan greatcoat carefully, her eyes never leaving his. "Is something the matter?" she asked.

"I could ask you the same thing, Gautier," he replied. "You seem anxious."

"What? Me?" she laughed nervously. "No, I'm not anxious. I just..." Heather sighed. "What a day, huh?"

Danse frowned. It was blatantly obvious that the young woman was hiding something. Heather was disarmingly charming, but she was a terrible liar. Still, he didn't press her. Frankly, if it had anything to do with Ethan, he didn't want to know. The Knight loved his friend, but sometimes Cutler had a way of getting himself in trouble that Danse would prefer to stay uninvolved with, especially when it came to women. He'd learned a long time ago to not ask questions when it came to Ethan's more lascivious behaviors. Plausible deniability was a great ally to have. "Did you need something?" he asked simply.

"I wanted to check on Artie," she replied. "How is he?"

"Squire Maxson is handling the present circumstances better than could be expected," Danse grumbled.

"Is that why you're hanging out in the hall with that kicked-puppy look on your face?" Heather teased. "You're worried about him. I am too."

"His well-being is none of your concern, Gautier," the Knight replied coolly.

She sighed. "Fine. Then how are you holding up, Danse?"

"Me?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes, you," Heather replied with a gentle laugh. "It must be difficult, not being able to help Artie. You've always struck me as the sort of guy who needs to find solutions to problems. And grief's not ever the sort of thing that has an easy solution, is it?"

Danse stared at her, taken aback by her response. "I...I suppose it's not the easiest situation," he said. "But you don't have to concern yourself with me."

She smiled. "Sure I don't. But look, I don't want us to be enemies, Danse. As far as I can see, you and I are more or less on the same side here. I'm not sure the same can be said for everyone here."

The Knight frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean," he replied softly. "You should be careful, saying things like that where anyone might overhear."

Heather nodded. "Can we go inside?"

"I'm not sure Squire Maxson wishes to be disturbed," Danse warned.

"Yeah, not by you," she retorted. "I'm sure if you told him I was here he'd let you back in. Wanna try it?"

Danse hesitated for a moment before knocking on the door.

"Danse, go away!" grumbled Arthur, his voice muffled.

"Knight Gautier's here to see you," the Knight replied. "I told her you wanted to be alone, but she --"

"Send her in," Maxson interjected.

Danse sighed with relief, pulling open the door and leading Heather inside. Arthur was still sitting on his bed, though his face was no longer vacant. He was reading from a rad-worn old book, its cover mostly faded to a sickening gray from years of neglect. The boy carefully turned a fragile page, humming softly under his breath. As Heather slipped into the room, he looked up with a slight smile.

"Are you here to tell me another story about your adventures?" he asked the young woman, his steely eyes bright as they met hers.

"Not today, Artie," she replied, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed and sitting in it, her back bent forward slightly. "I actually wanted to hear one of yours."

He frowned. "One of mine? But I never get to do anything interesting! Well, there was that one time, when I kind of shot Sarah, but you've heard that one already."

Heather snorted. "And seen the scar, too. But no, that's not what I want to ask you about."

"Then what is it?" Arthur replied.

"It's gonna seem kind of weird." Heather looked over at Danse. "Can you shut the door?"

The Knight nodded, beginning to pull the door shut.

"With you on the other side of it," Squire Maxson added, frowning.

Danse shook his head. "I can't just leave you alone with her, Squire."

Arthur scoffed. "Really? What's she going to do, kidnap me?"

"You don't think she could?" Danse protested. "We've talked about this! You can't trust anyone completely."

Heather nodded. "He's right, Artie."

"Not you too!" Arthur cried in exasperation. "Look, I get it, okay? But right now, I don't want to be a prisoner! I just want to be a normal boy, talking with a friend. And we are friends, aren't we Heather?"

She smiled. "Of course we are."

"Danse,wait outside," the boy repeated. "I'm not in the mood to be smothered today."

Begrudgingly, Danse offered a small nod. He squeezed Heather's shoulder tightly, ignoring the wince she offered as his armored fingers dug into her skin. "Very well," he relented. "But if anything happens to you, I'm holding Knight Gautier personally responsible. Is that fair?"

Heather grabbed the offending hand, prying Danse's fingers loose one at a time. "I'd expect nothing less," she replied. "I promise, Artie's safe with me. In fact, there's probably no one he's safer with right now, except for you."

The Knight's eyes widened as he processed her words. "So you think he's in danger?"

"I'm not sure what to think. Not yet." Heather sighed. "Just please, Danse. I know it's a lot to ask. But you've known me for more than a year now. You know what I've done, what I've sacrificed for the Brotherhood. Can you just trust me for now? I promise, as soon as I know what's going on, I'll fill you in, okay?"

"Very well," he grumbled again, slipping out the door and closing it behind him a bit rougher than was absolutely necessary. Danse was getting awfully sick of this particular hallway, that was for certain. He'd already memorized the discolored patches on the walls where lichen had been scraped off the building interior years before. He knew every strange fleck in the concrete, every crack in the ceiling. There was little to occupy his mind outside of speculation, so speculate he did. Why had Heather been so adamant about speaking to Maxson alone? Was there really a threat to the young Squire that Danse wasn't aware of? Or was that just a trick? Heather was prone to elaborate pranks. Was she just trying to unnerve Danse, and was Arthur party to her scheme? Were they in there laughing at his expense, or planning their next move? The Knight wouldn't put it past either of them, really.

That was probably the thing Danse disliked about Heather the most. She wasn't a terrible person, not unless all those rumors about her eating people were true. She just didn't seem to take anything seriously. Heather had her own code, one that sometimes ran contrary to the spirit of the Codex. For all the honor Elder Lyons had given her, including her rank, Gautier wasn't really a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. She might wear the uniform under her war trophy coat. She might make a token effort to follow the rules when she was called out on them. But she was never going to be a soldier. Not in any way that really mattered. The fact that Danse and Gautier held the same rank baffled him. Heather might be a hero, but she was no Knight. Danse knew he wasn't the only one who felt that way.

Still, he respected Heather. If it hadn't been for her, the Enclave might have soundly beaten the Brotherhood. No matter how he felt about her methods, she had singlehandedly blown up Raven Rock and killed President Eden. She'd nearly lost her life bringing Project Purity online. And if that wasn't already enough, she'd led the charge against Adams Air Force Base, significantly reducing the projected casualties in that battle. Heather was as brave as she was reckless, and no one could deny that she was destructive and powerful. But so were deathclaws, and no one tried to fit one of them into recon armor, or trusted them inside the Citadel. She was a valuable asset, but Danse never let himself believe that she was safe to have around.

He contemplated eavesdropping on her conversation with Arthur, just to be on the safe side, but his nagging conscience held him back. It would say more about his honor than Heather's if he let himself get worked up so easily. Instead, he stood stoically at the door and waited for her to come out.

After what felt like hours, the door opened and Heather emerged, grinning up at Danse. "He's all yours."

The knight looked past her, his eyes making contact with Arthur's. The boy avoided his gaze sullenly, his body slumped in defeat and exhaustion. "What did you do to him?" Danse hissed at the redhead.

Heather rolled her eyes. "He's just mad because he knows I'm right. Aren't I, Artie?"

The Squire nodded weakly. "Sorry, Danse," he grumbled under his breath. "I was a jerk. Forgive me."

"There! Was that so hard?" Heather asked.

"No..." the boy admitted, still not making eye contact with his bodyguard.

"And you promise you'll think about the other thing?" she pressed.

Arthur nodded. "If anyone else approaches me, I'll tell you immediately."

Heather smirked, walking back over to him and mussing his black hair gently. "You're a good kid, Artie. Hell, if you can just stop worrying poor Danse so much, you might even be a great one."

The Squire groaned, frantically straightening his hair. "You know I hate it when you do that."

She chuckled. "You're the one who wanted to be treated like a normal kid."

"I take it back," Arthur quipped.

"Very well, your steely magnificence," she retorted, giving him a mock bow. "Might I depart from your radiant presence? I seek a word with the lady of your favor."

The Squire blushed. "No, never mind. That's so much worse. And that's not...no one's supposed to know that!"

Heather laughed. "Artie, I think everyone in the Brotherhood knows about your little crush. You're not exactly subtle. Don't worry. It's really cute."

"Stop it!" he complained, throwing his pillow at her. "Get out! Danse, tell her to leave me alone."

"There's no need for that," Heather replied. "I'll see myself out." She sauntered past Danse, grinning up at him. "You're welcome," she mouthed, shooting the Knight a wink.

Danse's cheeks burned even as he tried to understand what he should be thanking her for. All she'd done was upset Arthur and...oh. He looked over at the boy again, and noted that while he seemed genuinely embarrassed, the Squire was no longer tense. His eyes seemed lighter, somehow, his hands relaxed next to him on the bed. He turned back to Heather. "How did you --"

But she was gone. The hall beside him was as vacant as it had ever been, with no trace of the vivacious young woman save for the faintest hint of gun oil and burnt sugar that always followed in her wake.


	4. Fighting For The Truth And Nobody Cares

Heather rushed into Sarah's quarters, breathless. The older woman looked up from a requisition form on her desk, a startled expression on her normally reserved face.

"Heather?" she asked, standing up to greet her visitor. "What's the matter? You look like hell."

The younger woman struggled to catch her breath. Ever since she'd been exposed to what should have been a fatal dose of radiation, her lung capacity had been shot all to hell. Frankly, she knew that she was lucky to have only gotten away with such minor complications, even if they were inconvenient. The next time she got caught in an impossible situation, she wasn't likely to be so lucky.

The three weeks since Owyn Lyons' death had been hell for Heather. After her conversation with Cutler, she'd wasted no time trying to get to the heart of any internal problems within the Brotherhood of Steel, any dissidents who might have designs on the leadership of the chapter. To say what she'd discovered was disheartening would be a massive understatement. It seemed like everyone had something to gain from the Lyons family being out of the picture, even those who had long professed their loyalty to the former Elder. Heather had barely slept, desperately trying to piece together every doubt, every scrap of evidence. It wasn't easy. There were too many unknown variables, too many people who were simply unwilling to talk about the past. Something was festering within the concrete walls of the Citadel. That was the only thing Heather knew for certain. And the deeper she dug, the more concerned she grew for the safety of her friends.

Her eyes darted about the room, quickly scanning to make sure the two women were alone. Finding no one, she nodded. "I think someone's gonna try to kill you and take over the Brotherhood."

The Elder frowned. "What?"

"I know it sounds crazy," Heather continued, "but I think...I mean, I know your father had a lot of enemies, okay? Not everyone agreed with his leadership. And I'm beginning to suspect that that's why he died."

"Are you suggesting that my father was murdered?" Sarah asked, incredulous. "You realize that's pretty unlikely. Who would dare?"

"I made a list," the Knight replied, handing Sarah a holotape. "I mean, I can't be sure, but these are the people I know who'd have the most to gain."

The Elder held the tape for a moment before setting it aside on her desk with a heavy sigh. "Heather, you're jumping at shadows. Look, I know you've had a really terrible year. After what happened to your dad, no one would blame you for seeing danger everywhere. But I know everyone in our chapter. I've known most of them since I was a child. And I promise, none of them would murder my father. The only thing that killed him was the same thing that takes all of us in the end."

Heather stared at Sarah in shock. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Sarah didn't even want to investigate the possibility of foul play? Someone could have assassinated her own flesh and blood, and the former Sentinel was just going to let it go? "Are you shitting me?" she exclaimed. "You haven't even looked at the evidence!"

"That's enough, Gautier," Sarah replied flatly. "Don't forget who you're talking to."

"I'm talking to my friend!" she snapped. "I know you're the boss now, but that still hasn't changed. I...I'd never let anyone hurt you, Sarah. Not ever."

The Elder sighed. "I know," she acknowledged. "Trust me, I feel the same way about you." Sarah smiled weakly, placing her hand gently on Heather's shoulder. The young woman's body tensed at the sudden contact, the sudden gentleness of the Elder's words. "I'm worried about you, Heather. You haven't exactly been the most stable lately. Knight-Captain Gallows tells me you've been in the archives until dawn most nights, that you've been hoarding rations again."

Heather scowled. "You've been having me watched?"

"After what you told me the other day?" Sarah replied. "Of course I have. You're an important member of my team. I can't risk you trying to hurt yourself again."

"So you asked Gallows to spy on me." Heather pulled away from her friend in disgust. "I'm fine, Sarah. You have to believe me. The only thing I'm doing is trying to protect the Brotherhood. To protect you."

The Elder stared at her, her lovely blue eyes filled with immeasurable sadness. "I wish I could believe that," she murmured. "But Gallows isn't the only one who's reported our erratic behavior to me. People are concerned that you're having a breakdown. And frankly, with the way you're behaving..." Sarah sighed. "Maybe it's best if you took some time away from the Citadel. Just a few weeks, to relax and rest. I'll cover your expenses, make sure you're taken care of."

"You're sending me away?" Heather cried. "Are you crazy? You need me here!"

Sarah shook her head. "I need you well. You're no good to anyone burnt out and paranoid, Heather. Even if there was a threat, can you honestly say that you're in any condition to face it?"

"That doesn't fucking matter!" the Knight snarled. "You're in danger. I'm not just going to leave you."

The Elder rolled her eyes. "Tell me something new, Heather. In case you haven't noticed, I'm always in danger. It's sort of my job."

"But this is different!" Heather replied.

"Is it?" Sarah sighed. "Look, I know you're trying to help. But unless you have real proof that someone's conspiring against me, there's not a whole lot we can really do. I'm not going to just start accusing my brothers and sisters of treason without evidence. That's not how the Brotherhood does things. That's not how a Lyons does things."

"I brought you evidence, and you're ignoring it!" Heather retorted. "I get that you don't want to be a tyrant. But if it's a choice between everyone thinking I'm crazy and losing you, I...I can't! I can't lose another person I lo...I care about. Please, just don't send me away! I can help you!"

The Elder shook her head. "You need to leave, before I toss you behind bars for insubordination. How much help do you think you'll really be to me in prison, Knight?" She pulled a letter from a pile on her desk, handing it to Heather. "If you really want to help, then take this to Scribe Bigsley at Project Purity. He hasn't stopped badgering me for reassignment since I became Elder."

Heather took the note, tucking it into her coat pocket with a heavy sigh. "Fine. But just promise me you'll keep yourself alive until I get back, okay? If you die, I'm never going to forgive you."

Sarah nodded. "I'll be careful. I promise. Stay safe out there, Gautier." She offered the Knight a salute, which Heather returned halfheartedly before retreating from the room, her heart twisting in her chest.

* * *

Heather threw a change of clothes, some rations, and a few packs of microfusion cells in her backpack, fuming internally. How could Sarah honestly believe that she was imagining things? They'd fought together, nearly died together. How could she not trust the Knight's judgement after everything they'd been through? To have her hard work ignored, to be treated like a crazy person...it was all too much.

"Fine," she muttered under her breath as she pulled the strap of her gauss rifle over her shoulder. "If you want me gone, I'll be gone. But don't come crying to me when you realize I'm right. Stupid bitch." She stormed out of her quarters, slamming the metal door behind her with a violent clang.

A bemused chuckle caught her attention, and she looked down the hallways to see Cutler staring at her, a sardonic smirk on his stupid face. "Bad day, Gautier?"

"Leave me alone," Heather growled.

He shook his head. "Not gonna happen. But why are you so worked up?" He looked her over, his smile widening. "Ah. That's right. I saw you coming out of Elder Lyons' office. Let me guess. She didn't believe you. I'd say I told you so, but..."

Heather brushed past Cutler, elbowing him roughly in the ribs. "I'm not talking to you," she grumbled. "This is all your fault."

He caught her arm. "Gautier, wait! Please! We want the same thing here!"

"What, to make a fool out of me?" she hissed, yanking her arm free. "To get me tossed out on my ass? Just leave me alone. Find some other moon-eyed recruit to listen to your conspiracy theories. I'm done." She kept walking, making her way steadily towards the courtyard.

"That would be such a mistake," Cutler replied calmly, keeping pace with her. "And, honestly, a real shame, too. We make a hell of a team, Heather. Besides, if you give up now, who knows what might happen? I'm not the only one who's been keeping tabs on you. Or your activities."

She stopped, her eyes meeting his curious hazel ones. "I know. Gallows turned me in. Said I was acting crazy."

Cutler nodded. "A shame that the Elder trusts him over you, isn't it?" he asked softly. "Especially when no one else trusts the guy."

Heather's eyes widened. "You think he's --"

Before she had a chance to finish her thought, Cutler pushed her roughly against the wall, his dry, chapped lips pressed tightly against hers. Heather squirmed in protest, her eyes wide in shock, but the man was far stronger than her and determined to keep her in place. "Easy, Gautier," he murmured against her skin, his lips tracing her jawline towards her ear, hot breath tickling her skin. "We're not alone. Play along."

She looked past him furtively, her eyes just catching the edge of a suit of power armor as its wearer retreated around the corner. The sword and lion were proudly emblazoned on the pauldron. Lyons' Pride. Was it Gallows, or one of the others? either way...

Heather nodded slightly, her arms snaking around Cutler's back even as her mind reeled. How long had it been since she'd last been this close to another human being, since she'd been kissed so intensely? Had she ever been? While Heather tried to pull back mentally, tried to remember that this was an act of deception, part of her melted into the warmth of Cutler's body as it spread to hers. She gasped audibly as his fingers found her hair, knocking her cap to the ground.

Cutler snorted in amusement at her reaction. "Either you're a natural, or I should have tried this weeks ago," he whispered.

"Shut up," she hissed back under her breath, her face flushed with embarrassment. Yes. Just embarrassment. "Just tell me what I need to know."

He nodded, his lips pressed against her ear. "Gallows doesn't just report to our lioness," he replied. "If he's discrediting you, someone else is pulling those strings. It's not safe for you to stay."

Heather whimpered as he nibbled her earlobe, her skin tingling with over-stimulation. "So you...you want me to leave too?"

Cutler sighed, brushing a wild strand of fiery hair from her cheek. "I don't think you have a choice."

"But what about --"

He chuckled, silencing her with another kiss. This one was less rough, less urgent. Somehow, that unnerved her even more. "Don't worry," he soothed. "I won't let anything happen to your friends. You have my word."

Heather looked up into his warm, compassionate eyes, her breath ragged. "Ethan, I --"

Her words were cut off by someone nearby roughly clearing their throat. Cutler tensed against her as he turned to look, even as he tried to play off his nervousness with a cheeky grin. "Oh. Hey, T."

Knight Danse scowled at them, his brows knitted. "Really, Ethan?" he muttered. "At least have the decency to practice your...indiscretions in private."

Heather's blush deepened. "Danse, it's not what it looks like."

Danse shook his head. "It's not my business what you do, Gautier," he continued. "So long as you behave professionally."

"It's my fault, T," Cutler interjected, pulling away from Heather.

"That I don't doubt in the slightest," Danse replied coolly.

Heather's skin felt cold and exposed without Cutler's warmth, but she tried not to dwell on it. She picked her cap off of the floor, pulling the brim down hard on her forehead to try and hide her embarrassment. "Did you want something, Knight Danse?"

He nodded, not making eye contact with her. "Elder Lyons told me that you were taking some leave, so I came to see if you needed anything. Though from the looks of things, Knight-Sergeant Cutler seems to have you covered," he added with an awkward mumble. "I hope you will return to us safely when your strength is restored."

"That's...surprisingly sweet of you, Danse," Heather replied. "Take care of Artie for me, okay?"

"That was already my assignment," Danse grumbled. "But I will tell Squire Maxson that you wished him well."

"Thanks," she said. "I guess I should get on my way. It's a long walk to basically anywhere."

"Do you want me to escort you to the gate?" Cutler asked.

She shook her head. "I think I...I'd rather be alone. Thank you."

Cutler began to protest, but Heather didn't listen. Instead, she tightened the straps of her pack and dashed down the hallway, desperate to get clear from the awkward situation behind her, from whatever she'd been poised to say in the heat of that artificial moment. She needed to get away. She needed to think. But most of all, she needed to sort out a situation she'd been avoiding before she got any more tangled up in the web of intrigue she'd found herself caught in. Maybe this leave was a blessing after all.


End file.
